


and they were roommates!

by viscidium



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Boners, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Best Friends, Bickering, Bisexual Male Character, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Domestic, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Lots of it, M/M, Nudity, Pansexual Character, Peter is a Little Shit, Pining, Porn With Plot, Puppy Love, Roommates, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Superheroes, based on FF #17, i have a thing ok, rip johnny, shy Johnny Storm, the smut is COMING, they're dumb but they're trying, they're just AWKWARD, this wasn't supposed to be slow burn but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-08-24 00:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16629596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscidium/pseuds/viscidium
Summary: Peter and Johnny live together. Sometimes Johnny wants to put his fist through a wall and sometimes he wants to put his fist through something Peter-shaped, but that’s okay. They’re learning to figure it out. Johnny just has to stop getting awkward boners.





	1. Chapter 1

>   _If you know the enemy and you know yourself, your victory will not stand in doubt._

—Sun Tzu

* * *

 

Johnny’s first hypothesis is this: Peter is intentionally trying to antagonize him.

 

This would make sense for a host of reasons, the most incriminating being Peter’s _complete and utter disregard for modesty._

 

Now, hear him out, okay? No innocent man would run around in skin-tight spandex with an ass like that. Even Johnny’s more self-aware.

 

See, Johnny lives up to his title, sports what he has because he knows exactly what he is and what he’s doing. Peter should be no different; he should realize what kind of standard, what _message_ he’s putting out there. He should shy away at the mere prospect of flaunting his toned body in his form-fitting, _honest to god should be illegal_ super suit, crumble in guilt at having caused his best friend one or seven awkward boners. He wouldn’t just... _Not Care_.

 

And that’s the weirdest part (besides the fact that Johnny, you know, is wet for Spider-Man). Peter’s whole _schtick_ is that he cares too much. The dude’s a 90’s sit-com laugh track and a Pandora’s box of dad jokes and debilitating responsibility. So either Peter’s an otherworldly incubus sent to Earth to personally torment Johnny, or he’s really, really, _astronomically_ oblivious.

 

Take five minutes ago, for example. Johnny was scrolling through Twitter, minding his business on the living room sofa, perfectly sane and not contemplating the consequences of jumping from their four-story balcony. Then in through said balcony clambered a very sweaty Spider-Man, who decided he’s going to strip naked _right there in front of him_ because... reasons _._

 

Johnny clears his throat.

 

“Oh, didn’t see you there,” Peter says a bit breathlessly. He stands in all his glory with the velvet sky as a backdrop, a silhouette of lean muscle and floppy hair. He’s traded his mask for scrapes and bruises and one hell of a smile, the latter of which is practically blinding in the dark room.

 

Johnny tries his best to keep his eyes from rolling out of his head and onto the floor. Peter is the _worst_ fucking liar he’s ever seen. He knew Johnny was sitting here, enjoying his Earl Gray in the pitch black darkness. He has that creepy Spidey Sense that means he somehow knows where Johnny is at any given point in time. And yeah, there’s their unspoken rule to never question the things they do after midnight, but Pete’s caught him here more times than he can count. It’s his brooding spot. He sits, drinks his tea, and _broods_. Plus, Peter never comes in through the balcony.

 

“What’re you doing? It’s three a.m.,” Johnny all but accuses, locking his phone and crossing his arms. What he’s accusing his roommate of, he isn’t really sure, but the pesky little bug is always up to something.

 

Peter has peeled the top layer of his suit off, and if nothing is done to stop him, the bottom half will quickly follow, and Johnny doesn’t have enough Earl Gray in the world to power through that.

 

“Patrolling,” Peter replies.

 

“I know that. I’m asking what you’re doing changing out _here_. Go to your room.” _Like you always do_ , he wants to add, but wisely bites his tongue. For all he knows, Pete’s just too banged up from tussling with Scorpion or Shocker or whatever B-list asshole to drag his body through his own goddamn window.

 

Or he’s subtly letting Johnny know he’d be down for a game of strip poker.

 

“It’s just you,” Peter waves him off. Or tries to, anyway. His foot gets caught in the left footie of his suit pants in the process of stepping out of them and he goes down. _Hard_. “Timber!” he yells shrilly, hitting the floor with a resounding thud.

 

Johnny can only stare at him. “Really?” Peter Parker is a walking catastrophe.  

 

Peter rolls onto his back after a brief groan, sighing up at the ceiling. He stretches out like a starfish stuck to the shag carpet, chest heaving as he relaxes. Apparently, he’s given up on undressing and has resolved to lie there with the suit bunched around his legs.

 

Johnny regards him wearily. “You’re interrupting my brooding,” he points out. He fails to mention he’s brooding _because_ of Peter. And that Peter is the object of not only his brooding, but also his latest (ahem,  _unwanted_ ) sexual fantasies. That would really put Johnny in a hole—and not the kind he wants to be in (ehe).

 

Peter’s eyes find Johnny’s in the cool darkness and his mouth twitches. “Aw, _Johnny_. But you look so lonely over there all by yourself. You come here often?”

 

“Enough to know you’re trouble. And that you stink. Go take a shower.”

 

“ _You_ stink. Maybe you should shower.”

 

“I just did, asshole.”

 

Peter chuckles, low and soft, like he’s too lazy to put any effort into it. “I’m so tired. I wish you could wash my body for me.”

 

Johnny has to take a calming sip of Faithful Earl. “What, like one of those old folks’ caregivers?”

 

“No, like... just let me sit there while you wash me.” He makes a face. “No, that sounds weird. Forget it.”

 

Unfortunately, Johnny’s brain has already cataloged that as another fantasy (Peter Scenario, as Johnny’s taken to calling them) and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the resulting images that flash before him. Peter, naked, hands braced against the wall of the shower. Droplets from above slide across the hard planes of his back, over his shoulders, drawing trails down his whole body. His hair is wet and messy, and Johnny can practically feel it between his fingers when he forces his head back. Peter’s groan as Johnny presses close. Close enough to feel the heat from his body, feel the goosebumps on his skin. Peter’s whine when Johnny anchors his hands on his hips, so close to where Peter needs him but not enough. His face, flushed and pressed against the cool tile, staring back at Johnny through his eyelashes. The bubbles lathering, soaping him up, _lubricating_. Peter’s flesh would be so smooth. It’d be so easy to slip a finger down, tease the inside. Peter would give him shit for teasing him, but Johnny wouldn’t be able to help it. He’d have to see everything, spread him open until Peter’s knees buckle, body trembling, _begging_ for—

 

“Uh, Johnny?”

 

With all the force of a 16-ton semi, Johnny slams back to Earth. And _oh boy_ was that a big mistake.

 

“Are you okay?” Pete, always the insufferable good guy, asks, concern squishing his brows together. He’s abandoned both his suit and the shag and is peering anxiously into Johnny’s face. He’s so close Johnny can smell his drying sweat, feel his hot breath against his cheek.  

 

And Johnny? Johnny just wants to die.

 

Despite what anyone has to say about him, Johnny isn’t the kind of guy to lust after just anyone. That’s what porn and one-night stands are for: to calm those desires until they’re manageable, to keep the objectification anonymous so he doesn’t have to feel bad about it. Without a face, without a name, they’re just harmless thoughts or the most basic of instincts.

 

But then his brain had to go and be a fucker and suddenly now Peter’s all he can see, Peter’s the one calling his name, and it’s Peter he thinks about when he’s spilling over his fist. Hell, it’s Peter he imagines in place of whatever Betty or Brian he’s fucking. It’s never a position Johnny ever expected himself to be in, especially with his roommate, who also happens to be his _best friend and superhero confidant._

 

It fucking _sucks_.

 

 _You’ve really done it now,_ he thinks faintly. It wouldn’t be nearly as bad if he could control his body’s reaction to Peter. Peter, who is innocently kneeling between Johnny’s legs with a hand on his thigh. Peter, who could know everything or nothing about what he does to Johnny.

 

“Uh,” Johnny says eloquently and hopes to Jesus Parker doesn’t notice the slight bulge in his sweatpants. Now would be a really great time for the dweeb to have selective memory.

 

Peter looks at him curiously. “What’s up? You zoned out for like five minutes.”

 

Was it really that long? He raises his eyebrows, puffing out a breath. “Yeah, yeah. Just tired.”

 

“Drinking caffeinated tea isn’t gonna help you sleep.”

 

“Yeah, I know, I—it’s _caffeinated_?”

 

Peter barks a laugh, this one full and unbridled. He squeezes Johnny’s thigh, all smiles, and it opens something up in Johnny’s chest. He kind of feels like giving Ant-Man a call and jumping down the garbage disposal.

 

“No wonder I haven’t been sleeping,” Johnny tries weakly.

 

“You’re a mess,” Peter agrees teasingly.

 

“Thank you, Sherlock. But which of us is naked in the living room?”

 

Peter glances down at himself as if just noticing he’s only in a pair of boxers (Human Torch themed boxers. With the little balls of fire. Johnny nearly has an aneurysm). It’s just Johnny’s luck that his stubborn boner is now also in Peter’s direct line of sight.

 

Peter doesn’t say anything, but he does still for a moment too long. Johnny spends the entire four seconds ready to flame on out of here and spend the rest of his adult life on a farm in the Himalayas. If only there were something to say. Like, _oh I was browsing porn before you crawled in here so this definitely isn’t because I totally want you to fuck me in the ass. Or the other way around. I’m really not picky. Also, you’re really hot pleasefuckmefuckfuckfuck._

 

“That’s not—” Johnny begins because _hello, gotta salvage some of your dissipating pride you idiot,_ but Peter interrupts with a flick to his shoulder.

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, and his smirk does something funny to Johnny.

 

Well. This is a rare occurrence. Normally, Parker ignores Johnny’s... _problems_ like the plague. He’s never done so much as raise an errant eyebrow. He stares, sure (enough for the both of them, _god_ ), but never has he addressed it.

 

And yes, this has happened before. Several times. Let Johnny sink between the couch cushions to suffocate in misery.

 

“You should go sleep, though,” Peter tacks on. He raises to his feet and stretches, yawning. The muscles in his abdomen go taut, flexing as he raises his arms above his head with an obscene groaning noise. Johnny feels his mouth go dry.

 

“O-okay,” he manages.

 

Peter mumbles a goodnight and stalks to his room, leaving Johnny to sit with his lukewarm Earl Gray and bask in the utter humiliation of it all. Like _fuck_ , he’s _Johnny Storm_. And Peter’s... well, _Peter_. He’s a loser, frankly, and the lonely dweebish type to boot. _Everyone_ knows that. Need a guy to fill the quota at your pity party? Peter’s your man. Need a weak, semi-pathetic, _did-I-mention-weak_ shoulder to cry on? Peter Parker, everyone. It just isn’t surprising. Dude has more haters than _The Emoji Movie_.

 

If only that were the real reason Peter is so insufferable.

 

Johnny’s known Peter for years now. Therefore, by all means, he should be used to how aggravatingly _Peter_ Peter is. It shouldn’t surprise him that he wants to bash Peter’s face in at every one of his stupid jokes, kick him a couple times for good measure, tie him up, stick his cock down his throat and— okay. Yeah. That’s where things get complicated.

 

It would be easy to write off Peter’s annoyingness as errors in his programming, chalk it up to a flaw in his personality that most suffer through with gritted teeth and turn-the-other-cheek policies. You can only hear so many bad puns before it drives you to insanity. It’s inhumane. Most have been tested, and even the best have failed. Fundamentally, there are some concerning things about Peter that Johnny isn’t ready to touch upon.

 

But all of that doesn’t hold a candle to the _real_ evil within Peter: the parts of him that everyone (read: half the female population) loves. Like Peter’s quirky, lovable best friend personality. Or his concerning selective memory loss of gargantuan proportions. He can remember everything from Quantum Theory to Scorpion’s favorite cheese but suddenly doesn’t recall crawling into Johnny’s bed at four in the morning and mumbling that he wants to eat his ass using his dead mother’s antique silverware.

 

And yeah, maybe that particular instance was sleep-walking (sleep-talking?), but still. Peter never remembers anything of _importance_. He’s allowed to get away with more than Johnny could ever dream of. He screws Johnny sideways (metaphorically, of course; things haven’t _climaxed_ that much), day in and day out, and Johnny can’t get a word in edgewise. It’s driving him to... well, that’s where the boners come in.

 

Perhaps there is bad blood between them, and Peter, unaware of Johnny’s ignorance, forgot to send out the Facebook invite. It isn’t a far fetch (even if Parker swears he won’t touch Facebook as long as he lives). It’s easy to believe Peter is chomping at the bit, waiting to get a rise out of Johnny. Maybe it’s all a game to him. Maybe Johnny keeps drawing the _Go to Jail_ card.

 

Or maybe Peter’s just stupid.

 

Johnny glares down at Spider-Man’s costume Peter left on the carpet with as much contempt as humanly possible. Yeah, screw this.

 

Johnny stops Peter before he can hop in the shower. He corners him in the hall, crowding him against the wall like the devil’s on his heels. Peter makes that annoying, innocent puppy dog face, skin pink and exposed in nothing but a towel, and Johnny can’t hold it in any longer.

 

Peter, the same guy who singlehandedly defeated Doc Ock and who could best any one of the Avengers, is left reeling. He holds his cheek, aghast. The outline of Johnny’s hand is visible on the soft flesh.

 

“Is this about the boner?” Peter calls after him as Johnny storms away. Johnny wheels about, ready to pummel his fucking roommate into the ground, but somewhere in the tussle, Peter’s towel had slipped from his waist. It’s pooled around Pete’s feet, everything out there for all of New York, the Queen of England, and Johnny to see.

 

Johnny feels his soul leave his body. He turns around and slowly walks to his room. Gently, he closes the door.

 

Theory one: Peter is personally trying to antagonize him. _Inconsistent_ _data_. _Check_ _back_ _later._

 

Theory two: the universe is out to ruin his life, and there’s not a thing Johnny can do about it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted my writer's block to end and somehow this was the result so... hope you enjoyed lmao


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sure where i'm going with this, but there is an appalling lack of spideytorch!roommate fluff out there. drop a comment if you love it, hate it, whatever. i'm always eager for validation *-*

 

>   _Break my face, my back, my arms, my neck. But please don't break my heart._

—Sarah Bettens

* * *

All things considered, Johnny’s day hasn’t been half bad.

 

And by that, he means it’s been the definition of literally fucking awful, but that’s okay. It’s fine. The important thing is that he’s alive and kicking, right? No Kree or Skrulls have invaded Earth to fight over Teddy Altman. Kang the Conqueror hasn’t crashed through the ceiling to send him into the past as a human sacrifice. Johnny is in optimal health, at the top of his game. Couldn’t be better.

 

Somewhere in his head, Johnny can hear Peter laughing at him.

 

“Fuck!” he curses enthusiastically as he topples over backward. His bag’s gotten stuck on the corner of the stairwell. _Again_. The staircase is dim and narrow, built in a way a zombie movie director could appreciate, and that’s never a suitable combination where military-issued duffle bags are concerned. The twists and turns of the hallway are jagged and sharp, perfect places to have mental breakdowns where no one will ever be able to find the body.

 

Tugging at the bag does no good (he’s tried. This is the fourth time this has happened), but he tugs anyway because he’s impatient and pissed off.

 

The duffel doesn’t fare well. The heavy bag won’t budge, and instead, his futile tugs only result in the strap ripping clean off. He collapses onto the steps with a miserable groan. He’s only on the second-floor landing. He still has over a hundred steps to drag this miserable piece of shit.

 

 _Maybe I’ll leave the bag,_ he thinks. But no, that would only be another bad decision to add to his already long list. He has his suit in the bag, his wallet, his _Secret Spidey Fap Bank_ , and although that might make a funny headline, “Missing bag found in shitty apartment belongs to Johnny Storm, who is in love with and masturbates to Spider-Man!” might be the saddest thing he’s ever heard.

 

Besides, it’s kind of pathetic that he lives here at all. Sure, it was Pete that chose the place and the guy’s broke as hell half the time, but Johnny offered to pay most (if not all) of Parker’s half of rent if _only_ they could live somewhere with a jacuzzi.

 

“It’s good for your muscles!” he’d tried to pitch it, his car salesman voice spot on, but Pete wouldn’t hear it.

 

“We aren’t luxurious guys. Well... I’m not,” Peter had said with a _look_. Damn his stupid responsibility. Johnny never wants to climb this staircase ever again.

 

It’s around this time that Peter normally gets off work. Johnny, who has memorized his schedule (don’t ask), can pinpoint when he’ll be walking into the building almost down to the minute. That still doesn’t prevent the flurry of embarrassment Johnny feels when he hears Pete skipping up the steps. Or stop his head from hitting the wall when his dumbass roommate fails to notice him sitting on the floor and trips over Johnny’s lump of a body.

 

“What the—what are you doing there?” Peter demands, catching himself on the railing with eyes the size of saucers. His hair is wild, as though he’s been running his hands through it all day. There’s a thin layer of perspiration on his forehead, his chest rising and falling almost as fast as Johnny’s heartbeat. He’s in his work clothes, the sleeves of his dress shirt folded up to his elbows. Objectively speaking, Johnny would let him raw him right here, right now.

 

“Sitting,” Johnny replies, staring at the wall angrily. That’s going to bruise.

 

“I can see that.”

 

“Good. That means you aren’t blind.”

 

Peter straightens himself out with a chuckle, smoothing the front of his slightly wrinkled shirt. “Need help?” he offers. He holds a hand out to Johnny.

 

Johnny takes it gingerly, embarrassed, but Peter doesn’t even struggle to pull him to his feet.

 

“I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow,” Peter says while he moves to where Johnny’s duffel was left, picking it up with ease. He effortlessly stuffs it under one arm, and with no thanks to his almost-translucent ( _whatthefuck_ ) white button-down, Johnny watches his muscles visibly bulge and contract with the movement.

 

Johnny’s mouth is suddenly full of saliva. He wonders how easy it would be for Pete to pick him up. Johnny isn’t the bulkiest guy around, but he’s still somewhere around two hundred pounds of lean muscle. Could Peter carry him under one arm? Could he carry him bridal style? Johnny’s eyes find his roommate’s forearms, his hands. The veins are so visible. His hands look so _strong_. Johnny wants to reach out and run the pads of his fingers over them.

 

 _He’s waiting for an answer, dumbass,_ he chides himself with a shake of his head. Peter tilts his head like a confused puppy. _Damn it._

 

“Um, plans changed,” he grunts, turning and stomping up the stairs. He doesn’t want to be reminded of today. Things were bad enough before he started fantasizing about Peter’s fucking body. Jesus.

 

“Want to talk about it?” Pete asks behind him. He’s following closely as if the bag doesn’t weigh a thing. Johnny’s a tad bitter about it.

 

“No.”

 

“ _Okayyy_. Well, anyway, what do you want for dinner? I was thinking Thai, but I don’t have enough money for the both of us.”

 

“Whatever’s fine.”

 

“We have Pizza Rolls in the freezer if you want that?” Pete’s voice is as soft as his footfalls behind Johnny.

 

“I said whatever’s fine. Are you going deaf?”

 

“Tough crowd,” Peter grumbles. He pokes Johnny in the small of his back like a little kid. “You’re grumpy today.”

 

Johnny glares over his shoulder. “You would be too if Ben flew your ship into an asteroid field, made you sick to your stomach with his flying, then had a gazillion alien worms try to impregnate you.”

 

Johnny’s foul expression is met with a smirk from his loathsome companion. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

 

Johnny doesn’t warrant that with a response. He makes sure to stomp extra heavily up the last couple of stairs to their floor, just to spite Peter and the universe at large. Peter only laughs good-naturedly, much to Johnny’s annoyance.

 

Once inside, Johnny flops onto the couch and vows never to move again. He’s in desperate need of some peace and quiet. He loves his family, he really does, but extended mission trips make him want to punch his fist through a wall. It doesn’t help that Ben’s been in a particularly awful mood recently (something about an ex, but who knows with that guy). Johnny’s just glad to be home, where he can prop his feet on the coffee table and not have Sue bitch at him about it.

 

“Get your feet off the coffee table,” Peter proceeds to bitch from the kitchen.

 

Johnny groans into one of the throw cushions. Oh, how he wishes he could strangle Parker. Just climb on top of him and squeeze his neck in a nice, tight grip, eat up the way Peter’s eyes grow deliciously wide. Feel Peter’s fingers grip at Johnny’s wrists for purchase, desperate. He’d fight back, sure, but something tells Johnny that Peter would like it. He’s the kind of guy who’d secretly be into a whole spiel of kinky, perverted shit.

 

Sighing, Johnny stretches his body out on the sofa the right way, giving Peter a cat-like hiss. One day, he’s going to find out all of Pete’s dirty little secrets. Who’ll be laughing then?

 

The smell of pizza wafts into the living room. Johnny perks up. Soon enough, Peter brings with him a plate of Pizza Rolls that he sets onto the coffee table with a glass of chocolate milk.

 

“You made me food?” Johnny raises an eyebrow.

 

“No, this is mine.”

 

“What? Not even gonna cook for me? I just got home!”

 

“Make your own food, idiot.”

 

_“Pee-tah.”_

“No.”

 

Johnny swipes a roll in the blink of an eye, and Peter gasps, astounded.

 

“Hey! Get your own!” he blindly claws at Johnny, but the roll has already disappeared and burnt the skin off the roof of Johnny’s mouth.

 

“If’s hawt,” Johnny whines, mouth full.

 

“Serves you right,” Peter glares. He scoots the plate away from Johnny and settles on top of his outstretched legs. He rips a couple of rolls in half, allowing them to cool down, then pops one into his mouth. Chewing with his mouth open, he asks, “Are you coming on patron with me tonight?”

 

Johnny shrugs. “Not really in the mood. I’ve saved the universe enough this week to last me a solid month of vacay.”

 

Here’s where Peter slows his eating to look at Johnny disapprovingly. Johnny knows exactly what that look means, but he’ll fuck himself with a cactus before he backs down.

 

“You should stay in with me,” Johnny suggests, though it’s more to provoke Peter than anything else. He knows Pete will never take him up on his offer. Peter Parker is all work and no play. All responsibility and no... well, _irresponsibility_. He’d take a bullet before he abandoned his city.

 

And while that’s a part of Peter that makes him the man he is, the hero Johnny grew to know and love, he deserves a break once in a while. The dude needs to loosen up, smoke some weed, _something_. At the rate he’s going, he’s going to keel over before he sees his upper forties.

 

“You know I can’t do that,” Peter sighs. He almost sounds... _disappointed_ to turn Johnny down. And okay. That’s a little odd.

 

“Just another thing I hate about you,” Johnny teases, punching Peter’s shoulder playfully. Peter just rolls his eyes and continues eating, happily chugging his chocolate milk like he isn’t a fully-grown adult. Johnny has to fight to keep the fondness off his face as he scoffs and calls him childish. Because sometimes? Peter is the weirdest, most adorable boy Johnny has ever seen.

 

* * *

 

When Peter bursts into Johnny’s room five hours later, he doesn’t mention the brunette screaming obscenities on the laptop screen.

 

He doesn’t seem to register any of the other telltale signs, either: not the bottle of lotion sitting on the desk, not the box of tissues, not even _Johnny_. He blows into the room like a leaf in the wind and doesn’t spare the other boy or the hand down his pants a glance.

 

“Have you seen my charger?” he asks, rooting around the piles of his clothes that litter the floor. Pete’s always telling him to pick the mess up, but Johnny’s thanking whatever deities exist in the sky for the distraction now. He slips his hand out of his pants as inconspicuously as he can and pauses XXXBRAZZERS.COM with a reddened face.

 

“Uh, why would it be in here?” Johnny’s tongue feels heavy. “I thought I saw it in the living room earlier.”

 

Peter growls, throwing his head back in exasperation. His Adam's apple bobbles. Johnny shifts in his desk chair uncomfortably.

 

He’d be all about helping Pete in literally _any other_ instance and situation besides this particular one—the one where Johnny is sexually frustrated and half hard. But, well, life is a bitch sometimes, and growling, coincidentally, is more of a turn on than Johnny ever remembers it being. If he wasn’t already panting and on the edge of his seat (literally), by golly, he _would be_ just from that obscene noise.

 

Sweaty presumably from patrolling, Peter’s body is practically _glistening_. He’s completely disregarding modesty again, covered in only a layer of sweat and a pair of boxers. Johnny wouldn’t be surprised to find he’d walked out of his suit somewhere else in the apartment. He huffs softly. Why must he torment him such?

 

“I looked there earlier! I can’t find it _anywhere_ ,” Peter bellows, punching an unobtrusive sneaker lying upside-down on Johnny’s duffel. He’d abandoned it when he was supposed to be unpacking earlier.

 

Peter collapses in exhaustion or defeat, slumping against the wall. He looks up from the floor to Johnny, and it must be then that his eye catches what Johnny was doing.

 

He doesn’t say anything, though. He just stares ( _like he always does_ ), his eyes jutting from Johnny’s face to Johnny’s screen, and finally, to Johnny’s crotch. He seems _very_ interested in that last one. Slowly, a look crosses over his face like a shadow.

 

Johnny clears his throat and barely manages to force out “Uh, do you mind?” without his voice cracking.

 

“So... brunettes, then, huh?”

 

Johnny sighs in exasperation, scrubbing a hand down his face. It does little to hide the fact that it’s in literal flames, but it’s a nice sentiment.

 

“Dude, go look somewhere else, please. Your charger is obviously not here.” He hopes to be graced with Peter’s humanity today. It’s only been a week since the last time Peter caught him with an awkward boner. Jesus _Christ_.

 

Peter tilts his head. “So,” he begins, unbearably awkward, “BDSM?”

 

Johnny decides that Peter isn’t human. He was possessed by the devil while out on patrol. That thing looking back at Johnny is _not_ Peter Parker.

  

“I was just... browsing.” Johnny tries in vain to scrounge whatever remains of his pride. He closes his web browser with growing mortification. His eyes slide to the left to take in Peter, who’s staring right back, a curious expression stretching his face in a way that makes Johnny’s heart thump loudly in his ears. Johnny glares holes into the carpet under his feet. Curse Peter’s entire existence. He’s probably an alien sent by an evil, demented celestial overlord to torment him personally.

 

Peter’s tongue peeks out to swipe over his bottom lip. He clears his throat. “I should, uh...” he motions vaguely to the door but makes no effort to move or rip his gaze from Johnny’s visible problem.

 

“You think?” Johnny tries and fails not to snap.

 

Peter blinks slowly, not quite processing his words, nor his tone, nor anything, it appears. It’s like he’s trapped in another plane of existence. “What?”

 

“I _said_ ,” Johnny stresses, crossing his arms over his lap, “ _get_ _out_.” What would Peter’s charger even be doing in here? His room’s strictly off-limits after all those times Parker accidentally climbed through the wrong window and Johnny woke up to the idiot spooning him.

 

“Oh,” Peter says, his pink tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip again. Then his body gives a jerk as though slapped, and he seems to snap out of his trance.

 

Johnny eyes him wearily. Before he can question it, though, Peter picks himself up and darts out of the room, gracelessly slamming the door shut behind him. Johnny stares at the wood panel for a moment, then at the broken lock hanging from the edge of the frame by faith alone.

 

Well, that explains some things. Who needs door locks when your roommate has superhuman strength?

 

* * *

 

Johnny goes to bed, unsatisfied and seriously pissed off, and wakes up several hours later to a warm body pressed up against him.

 

His first instinct is to jump out of his skin because, uh, he doesn’t remember _walking into an alternate dimension_. But he forces himself to lie still with bated breath and assess the situation. This is still his room, dark as it is, and those definitely feel like his sheets.

 

Whoever crept into bed with him is _close_. Impossibly so. A leg hooked around Johnny’s hip, their face is pressed into the space his neck and shoulder meet. He can feel their warm breath on his skin, their lips against his pulse. There’s a strong arm around his waist, holding him in place, and now that arm is tightening and—wait. They’re saying something.

 

“Go to sleep, little lamb,” they mumble, and Johnny elbows Peter in the face.

 

“I hope you die alone!” he hollers over Peter’s resulting cry.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coughcough porn will be here eventually


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here have this i'll edit it in the morning when i can bear to look at it (-公- ;)

> _You can close your eyes to the things you don’t want to see, but you can’t close your heart to the things you don’t want to feel._

—Johnny Depp

* * *

 

Things in Johnny’s life have the habit of going spectacularly sideways at the worst of times. This week, it’s an Aunt May dinner party in the middle of a _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ marathon. Johnny has a cold. Naturally, he’s in the worst of moods.

 

“Come _on_ ,” Peter urges, again, for the thousandth time. His sense of urgency is misplaced, however; Johnny’s not going anywhere for at least the next three days.

 

To prove this, he looks up from his laptop screen and glares. “Don’t ‘come on’ me, dude. I’m not your pet.”

 

“I don’t—you know how she gets! Just help me out. She likes you!”

 

“I seriously doubt that. She’s a suspiciously good actor. You remember that time we walked out naked and she pretended she wasn’t checking me out? It’s creepy, man.”

 

“I think she was thinking other things...”

 

“What?”

 

Peter heaves a massive sigh and slumps against the doorframe. Johnny’s been avoiding him a bit after that night last week. Not blatantly enough for Peter to notice ( _would he notice at all?_ ), but Johnny is still cagey. His two-day marathon and the mountains of dirty laundry barricading him from the outside world don’t exactly indicate all’s well and dandy in Johnny Land. But hey, it’s the weekend.

 

In the time since Johnny’s last seen him, Peter’s acquired a limp and a black eye. He’s also put on clothes for once. Johnny can’t tell if that’s a step forward or backward.

 

“Why don’t you want to?” Peter asks, and _goddam it_ he sounds sad. Disappointment is a trait that runs in Parker blood and Peter wears it like a brand, weaponizes it like he knows it’s as deadly as the fucking plague.

 

" _Because_. She doesn't like me."

 

"Of course she likes you, you're Johnny Storm! _Everyone_ likes you and if they don't... well, they're usually on my shit-list too."

 

Johnny groans. He just missed three scenes’ worth of dialogue for that lousy attempt at condolence. He pauses B99 impatiently. "You're terrible at this, you know?"

 

“Hey, I’m trying. That’s more than you can say.”

 

Johnny thinks that’s a bit uncalled for. In truth, there shouldn’t be any reason he would want to avoid May like Hepatitis B. He should just soldier through it, right? That’s what friends do, right?

 

Johnny’s not in the mood today.

 

Dinners with Aunt May are always a little weird. Weird because Peter is weird. And because Peter is weird, so his aunt is by extension—or proximity, Johnny hasn’t decided yet. It’s likely his aunt is where Pete gets his weirdness from, but Johnny doesn’t stick around for these “dinners” long enough to know either way. They aren’t really even dinners, anyway. They’re an excuse for the woman to criticize Peter’s work ethic and love life and for Peter to cast embarrassed glances towards Johnny, who’s usually stuffing his mouth in the corner. The whole thing is just— _weird_.

                                                                                                                

They switch who hosts every week. Johnny is always glad when May hosts because that means he can hide in his room and pretend to be violently ill without her disapproving frown hanging over his head. He’s been pretty good at worming his way out of it after he accidentally set fire to May’s kitchen trying to cook tater tots two months ago.

 

But Peter’s trying especially hard today. He’s taking it almost as bad as that time Johnny said Mr. Clean and Adam Driver could simultaneously double dog him and then immediately scoured the deep web for Mr. Clean x Adam Driver fanficiton—which is pretty bad, considering.

 

He can’t just tell Peter his aunt’s perhaps a bit off her rocker, though. He’d never speak to Johnny again. Johnny doesn’t know how Parker hasn’t grasped the fact that May’s invasive questions are awkward at best, and that no amount of mashed potatoes constitutes the obligatory “gotta fatten you up” comment. (What’s he being fattened up for anyway? _Market?_ )

 

But that’s another ballpark entirely. The real question is why Peter or May bother to invite him at all. He just sits there. Stoic and uncomfortable. If he has to hear May tell Peter he should ‘have kids already’ one more time, he’s going to outwardly implode. Explode. Whatever.

 

Johnny should be grateful. Right? May’s always been kind to him (even if sometimes it feels like she’s staring straight through him) and Peter’s... bearable. It’s entertaining to see Pete get flustered at being pampered and fussed over, too.

 

Now it’s Johnny’s turn to sigh. “You are the worst,” he says with no real bite to his words, shutting his laptop and climbing out of bed. An avalanche of stray Cheetos and cheese dust rains down as he stands, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind. He gives Johnny a quick hug, too tight and too breathless as he laughs and squeezes.

 

“You’re the man!” And as soon as he’s there, he isn’t.

 

Johnny rubs his temples to evade an oncoming headache. It’s all he can do to lock himself in the bathroom for an overdue shower. He may be fighting tooth and nail here, but he might as well prepare for the worst. Peter’s aunt may be a suspiciously good actor, but Peter’s the better manipulator.

 

* * *

 

This week, Peter’s hosting, apparently. He’s not attempting to cook because they all know how well that’ll go. Instead, they’re ordering KFC for the first time since they moved in together and hoping for the best. May’s supposed to be over in twenty minutes.

 

Johnny’s still trying to get out of it.

 

“Don’t be rude,” Peter reprimands.

 

Johnny’s in the bathroom, shaving. “She has a third eye, bro. How are you not seeing this?”

 

Peter looks put-upon. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

 

“She _sees_ things. We can’t rule out the possibility of May having x-ray vision until we know for _sure_. Haven’t you ever thought about it? She’s so suspicious. It’s like she’s one step ahead of us at all times, like she _knows_ things. Could be government secrets. Could be _your_ secret. All I’m saying is—ah, never-mind.” He gets distracted by Pete pushing his hair off his face with a cute little yawn and nicks his chin with the razer. He curses quietly. “Go away.”

 

Peter’s sitting on the closed toilet seat, watching him through the mirror. “Not until you agree to join us.”

 

“Not happening.”

 

“Why are you shaving, then?” Peter points out dryly. “And why’d you get dressed? And shower? And brush your teeth?”

 

He would be more creeped out if Peter hadn’t seen him do each of those things, respectively. Even the shower. He’d let himself into the locked bathroom and sat on the toilet and glowered like a stray cat. He hasn’t moved a muscle since.

 

“Can a man not practice self-care? What is this country coming to?” Johnny rips a piece of toilet paper and presses it to his bloody chin.

 

Petey yawns again, all cute-like, and their eyes meet when he frowns immediately after, wiping away the moisture it brings with the pads of his fingers. “That’s—wait, you’re changing the subject. Are you still sick? You need to take medicine.”

 

Johnny scoffs away a smile. “Who’s changing the subject now?”

 

“I’m just tired.”

 

“Did you not sleep? What time’d you get in?”

 

Peter squishes his cheeks between his palms and blinks owlishly. “I don’t know. I didn’t check. I’ve been awake since.”

 

“What?! No wonder you’re so annoying—” Peter kicks him weakly, but Johnny easily dodges. “That really isn’t healthy, bro.”

 

“Says the guy who hasn’t slept in three days. _Bro_.” He makes another attempt at kicking Johnny without moving from the toilet and makes it about as far as skimming his calf. The material of his sweatpants is soft under his big toe.

 

“That’s different,” Johnny says.

 

“Of course.”

 

Johnny tosses the bloody toilet paper wad at his best friend and is disappointed he only stares blankly back, not even bothering to react. “Pah. How lame, Pee-tah.”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“ _Pee_ -tah.”

 

“It’s—it’s too much like Peeta. Gross.”

 

“The bread baking boy? Hah, say that three times fast. Bread baking boy. Bread baking boy! Bread breakin—okay, never-mind. It isn’t as difficult as I thought.”

 

Peter snorts softly. “I don’t know why I live with you.”

 

Johnny rolls his eyes and gestures to his chin. “Case in point. Living with you is detrimental. The number of injuries I have acquired since our cohabitation is in stark contrast to any other time in my life.” As if to clarify, he adds: “You’re distracting me. I’m over here hurting because of you. _Wounded_. In _pain_.”

 

Parker rolls his eyes right back when Johnny pouts at him. Johnny only laughs. The fact that those two statements are true for more things than he feels strictly comfortable admitting doesn’t faze him. He’s grown accustomed, slowly, to his newfound attracted to Peter.

 

Okay, maybe not newfound. More like since the first time he pulled his mask off and Johnny realized the subject of his attraction is the type of nerdy, scrawny kid he would’ve picked on in high school. Because he liked Spider-Man the moment he met him; he’d had to warm up to Peter. And once it was revealed that they are one in the same, everything started to make a lot more sense.

 

Well, everything besides his feelings. If anything, it was a lot less cinematic than he’d imagined. Spider-Man is Peter, and somehow that made sense at the time. But Peter isn’t Spider-Man. He couldn’t be. Johnny’d had a crush on Spider-Man forever; Peter’s his _best friend_.

 

He remembers feeling conflicted. His mind latched onto _Peter-being-Spider-Man_ and wouldn’t let go. Suddenly it was all he could think about, and he was _embarrassed_. He’d never imagined the... _questionable_ (flirty) things he said to Spider-Man would be heard by Peter. And he never dreamt that Peter would be the one flirting _back_.

 

Now, years later, he still can’t quite wrap his head around it. He was a stupid teenager—they both were. That’s all it was.

 

But the flirting never stopped once Johnny started seeing Peter’s face under the mask.

 

It only got worse.

 

Like now, for instance. Peter leans forward so he’s in Johnny’s space and whines obnoxiously. “Aw, poor baby. Does someone want a kissy to make the booboo go away?”

 

Yes.

 

Johnny makes a disgusted noise. “No.”

 

“Too bad—you’re getting one anyway!” A sudden burst of energy sends Peter forward. He plants his lips to the underside of Johnny’s jaw, lightning fast, before Johnny can do so much as remember the feeling of his mouth.

 

Like earlier in Johnny’s room, Peter makes to sneak away, but Johnny stops him with a grab to the collar of his shirt, yanking him back as his brain catches up. His chest swells at Peter's surprised squeak when his hip hits the counter, eyes blinking wide.

 

“Ow—what—” he tries but cuts himself off abruptly when Johnny traps him against the sink, caging him in with both arms. They’re front to front. Johnny looks down and down and sees how small the gap between them is, and could mewl.

 

Wisely, he chooses not to do so. Instead, he grabs a handful of Pete’s hair and tips his head back, exposing the long column of his neck.

  

And just like that, he’s giving Peter Parker a hickey in their bathroom.

 

It’s a lot less romantic than it sounds. Peter starts laughing because of course he does, and Johnny, frustrated, bites into the smooth flesh just below his ear rather clumsily. The noise Pete makes goes straight to his dick.

 

“Hey that’s—isn’t that—what.” Peter chokes out. And Johnny likes that. He wants to hear more. So he does what he’s good at: he improvises.

 

Pete gives a shudder in reply when he sucks a spot over the bite mark, letting his tongue slip between his lips to taste the skin. He even gasps softly when Johnny’s teeth catch his ear.

 

“Johnny, I—” he attempts eventually, but again is interrupted, this time by his own voice—a quiet _"ah! ah!"_ when Johnny tightens his grip on his hair, wrenching his head from where it fell forward. Every breath he takes comes out shaky, his pulse spiking with every drag of teeth against smooth skin. But his hands aren’t pushing Johnny away. They’re twitching somewhere around Johnny’s shoulders, and twitch even more when Johnny’s tongue swipes over the evidence his teeth left behind.

 

He breaks away to admire the purpling bruises and nearly shits himself.

 

He stares.

 

Peter stares back, wide-eyed and flushed. Somewhere in the scuffle, he’d been driven up onto the counter, Johnny pressed right up against him between his legs. He can... _feel_ Peter.

 

A jolt of arousal wracks its way through Johnny. It pools low in his belly and stays there, like the jab of a hot fire poker. He can feel how excited he is, how he’s getting turned on and can’t seem to curb it, doesn’t want to. Peter’s so _close_. He could close his eyes and seal their lips together, swim in the warmth of Peter’s body. But he can’t seem to do anything, and the look Peter’s wearing like a second skin is making him want to curl under his bed and never crawl out again.

 

Peter is watching him like he isn’t sure what just happened. His shirt is rumpled, his hair a mess, and Johnny’s _between his thighs_. He can think of a million Peter Scenarios that start out this way.

 

But all end with Peter hating him.

 

One of Peter’s shaky hands reaches up to... something, to do _something_ , but Johnny never gets to find out what because it’s that exact moment that Aunt May finds them.

 

Both of them jump at the sound of her voice. They hadn’t heard her buzzing from outside. They hadn’t heard her let herself in. They hadn’t heard her calling for them until now, when she’s in the hall, standing two feet away and watching them with eyes the size of the moon.

 

“I... thought I’d use that key you made me, Pete,” she says.

  

They push away from each other as though burned. Johnny kind of wishes he _had_ burned him. _What the fuck._

 

“May—” Peter tries and fails to speak, and ultimately has to give up on language entirely. He closes his eyes, exhales, and hops off the counter like the past five minutes were a figment of Johnny’s imagination—which Johnny would be inclined to believe, were it not for the dark flush on Peter’s face. Johnny doesn’t dare glance at his neck.

 

Then, apropos of nothing: “The chicken’s here.”

 

And just like that, May smiles somewhat unsteadily and leads Peter out of the bathroom, leaving a flabbergasted and horny Johnny to examine his reflection in solitary astonishment. There’s no way that happened.

 

He touches his lips. They’re slick with his own spit.

 

There’s _no way._

 

* * *

 

So that happened. But they aren’t speaking about it. The reason? Yeah, Aunt May again. Damn that woman.

 

The woman in question is finishing off the last of the mashed potatoes, but she kindly offers it to Johnny for what feels like the third time already. He just dazedly shakes his head because if he eats any more, he’s going to paint the table with half-chewed chicken and gravy.  

 

“Please, dear. You need to eat more. You’re so terribly thin.” She holds up the container and maybe its infused with magic properties because its contents somehow end up on Johnny’s plate.

 

“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” Peter says, and Johnny feels vaguely sick.

 

“You had three helpings already, Peter.”

 

“I’m a growing boy?”

 

May _hmphs_ , which is a noise Johnny never thought he’d hear from her. He’s being surprised in all kinds of unexpected ways today, it seems.

 

“Really, are you gonna eat that?” Peter pipes up and seriously, _how is he so chipper?_ They’re sitting here being dissected by this woman like that poor starfish in eighth-grade Biology. Johnny never imagined he could ever sympathize with Patrick Star but. Here he is.

 

“Take it,” Johnny replies, and if he means _take everything, I literally have nothing left for you to take away from me_ , well. That’s just his life now.

 

* * *

 

Things in Johnny’s life have the habit of going spectacularly sideways at the worst times. Tonight, it’s a race to test every last one of his nerves.

 

“I’m sorry about May,” is what Peter says, but he really means: _we are never breathing a word of this again._

 

Johnny wants to be disappointed, he really does. But he saw this coming. Peter tucks tail and runs whenever things get sticky. Selective memory, all that.

 

So Johnny says, “It’s okay,” and that’s that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a turn oopsies 
> 
> now taking funds for Get Peter Two Braincells to Rub Together. trust me, he needs it.
> 
> (please drop a comment below if u liked it!! i love feedback)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took a serious turn i'm-
> 
> thank you for the sweet comments *-* i'm sorry this took so long i have been MIA. i don't have time to edit this but i will tomorrow!

 

> _If you don't receive love from the ones who are meant to love you, you will never stop looking for it._

—Robert Goolrick

* * *

 

“It’ll be _fun!”_  

 

_“No.”_

 

“Fun, Wyatt. You remember it?”

 

Johnny can practically feel Wyatt’s sigh against his ear. _“Anything ‘fun’ to you means I’m paying for it,”_ he returns with a delicate cough, and Johnny is reminded of the last time they hung out. He may or may not have left Wyatt to bleed out in an alley while he chased after Black Cat. Oops. _“Besides, I don’t feel like going out. You know how it is with Jen.”_

 

Johnny doesn’t know how it is. But it probably isn’t a Sunday picnic, considering Wyatt’s on-and-off, sort-of-girlfriend is She-Hulk and possesses the ability to punch Wyatt three miles into the Earth’s mantle if he buys the wrong deodorant. Dating a super. Yikes. 

 

He holds his phone between his shoulder and ear to shimmy his way into a pair of dark wash skinny jeans. “All the more reason to come, dude. Seriously, you never get out anymore. You’re _boring_.”

 

Wyatt scoffs lightly. _“Coming from Johnny Storm, that’s almost a compliment.”_

 

“I’m serious. I need a wingman tonight.”

 

_“Something happen?”_

 

Johnny wrestles with the button and zipper of his pants with one hand and thinks about yesterday. Well, something _did_ happen, but then the fun part that comes after _didn’t_. And that’s usually the problem, isn’t it?

 

“No.”

 

 _“Uh-uh,”_ Wyatt drawls, unconvinced. _“I know it’s kinda your thing to be a pain in the ass, but you’re asking me to go clubbing with you on a Monday night. Something definitely happened.”_

 

“That's awfully observant of you, Wyatt. You sure you aren't in love with me or something?”

 

_“Johnny.”_

 

Johnny hates that tone. _“Wyatt,”_ he snipes in return like the petulant asshole he is. He should’ve known Wyatt would see through his plans. But maybe he was counting on that. Maybe he’s craving an intervention.

 

_“If you don’t wanna talk, fine. But you have so many other friends who would be pleasantly surprised to learn Johnny Storm has a heart. People care, man.”_

 

Johnny chews his lip. “I just... need to drink and stop thinking,” he says. Because while Wyatt is the closest thing he has to a best friend that isn’t Peter, it’s never been easy opening up to him. Sure, Johnny’s fairly certain Wyatt would never judge him—hell, the dude knows more about his homosexual escapades than anyone else—but this is _Wyatt_ he’s talking to. He can’t talk to _Wyatt_ about _Peter_. That’s... that’s like the Bro-Code equivalent of shagging your best mate’s sister and then bragging about it. It’s just weird. The whole thing is weird and it gives Johnny the heebie-jeebies. He’d tell Wyatt almost anything, but there are some things that are too invasive.

 

 _“My coworker Anna has been asking about you. You could take her out tonight. I think you two would get along well.”_ Wyatt’s voice grows faint like he set the phone down and walked away. There’s some shuffling. A dog barks.

 

“I don’t do office romance.” Johnny scrunches his nose in distaste.

 

_“Ah, right. Playboy Johnny back at it again.”_

“Hey, relationships, in general, aren't my thing.”

 

 _“I know,”_ Wyatt sighs. _“Why not bother Parker? He’s always eager to hang out with you.”_

 

Johnny isn’t sure what to make of that. Peter's never been 'eager' to do anything with him, let alone hit the town for a quick bang. Peter's the perfect amount of unwilling and annoying that makes for an awful lot of headaches on Johnny’s part. It’s a little hilarious and sad at the same time and he finds himself chuckling perhaps a bit miserably while he pulls a crisp blue blazer from his closet.  “That’s the worst idea you’ve had yet. And that’s saying something.”

 

_“What? He loves you. You guys have fun.”_

“Not so sure about that,” Johnny mumbles under his breath. He doesn’t mean for Wyatt to hear it, but he must because he sighs again.

 

_“Look, dude. I’m sorry I can’t tonight. We should meet up, all four of us, for brunch. I miss doing that. You two have been cooped up in that apartment of yours like newlyweds. Guess you guys fight like a married couple, too.”_

Johnny doesn’t have any time to ponder that. In the background, the sound of a baby wailing cuts his half-formed response out of his throat before he can even open his mouth. Right. Wyatt has a kid now.

 

“Okay,” Johnny acquiesces. He tries to keep his disappointment from rearing its ugly head, but he doubts Wyatt would hear or care anyway. He hangs up and tosses the phone towards his bed. He’s alone tonight.

 

Okay.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where are you off to?” Peter asks as Johnny’s almost successfully out the door. He stops short and turns.

 

“Uh, nowhere.”

 

Peter’s in his suit. He’s standing in the kitchen with a bagel (cinnamon crunch, extra cream cheese) and looking like a recently homeless Hollister model. There’s the shadow of stubble over his jaw; he hasn’t shaved in a while. And judging by the grime smeared across his cheeks and browbone, he hasn’t showered either.

 

Pete raises a brow. “That certainly explains the get-up.” His eyes rake up and down Johnny’s body, sending a thrill through him that he desperately hopes isn’t visible.

 

“I’m just going out for a bit,” Johnny murmurs. It isn’t fair that Peter gets to look like that. What use does a nerd like _him_ have for god-like features with a personality like _that_? Johnny’s never seen it, but he’s willing to bet Pete’s packing too. The skin-tight suit certainly boasts as much.

 

Parker’s head bobs like he understands, but his eyes flash with something fiery. “Will you be back tonight?”

 

Johnny paws the door handle. Fuck.

 

“Um, probably not.”

 

Peter doesn’t purse his lips like Johnny expects him to. He instead takes a bite from his bagel (smearing cream cheese onto his upper lip. What a loser) and hums.

 

Johnny awkwardly goes, “Yeah,” because what else is he supposed to say? _Oh, sorry, man. My bad. I’m just going out to get some dick to ignore how much I want yours down my throat. Perfectly normal. I’m just a healthy young lad, you see? Too much energy. Too much stamina. Probably more than you have but let’s put that to the test um please uh_

 

Peter’s tongue darts out to lick the cream cheese away.

 

It really feels like he’s doing this on purpose.

 

“Yeah,” Pete echoes. He finishes off his bagel and sticks two fingers (two long, slender, pretty fingers) into his mouth because _cream cheese_. He then turns to the counter behind him and bends down to grab a napkin from the bottom drawer.

 

Johnny wrestles with the urge to gawk. Or moan. Or—something very inappropriate. Pete has a _great_ ass. Like, _really_ great. And he can see everything. Who the fuck bends like that? He’s practically sticking his ass in Johnny’s face and laughing because he can’t do anything about it. Is this payback for yesterday? For the hickeys? Oh god, the hickeys. Johnny can see them peeking over the collar of Peter’s suit like some kind of warning. Or promise. _Fuck_.

 

Johnny leaves without another word.

 

* * *

 

Johnny doesn’t make it back to the apartment until about three in the morning, piss drunk and seriously ticked off. He’s been ticked off all week, actually, but the three shots he downed earlier probably aren’t helping his case. Pete always says he’s an emotional drunk.

 

He stomps into the apartment quietly. Or attempts to, at least. He isn’t sure how quietly someone in clunky boots can stomp into an apartment quiet enough to rival a graveyard.

 

He finds himself shuffling into the kitchen in the dark and confiscating the Pringles can sitting on the counter. He peels the lid off and shoves a few (seven) chips into his mouth. He chews and thinks and chews and thinks, and the more he thinks, the angrier he gets.

 

Johnny can tell something’s off. He’s been tiptoeing around the realization for about a month now. Something’s changed in their roommate dynamic. It could be one of Pete’s bad spells or something, but Peter’s been regularly surprising him at every turn.  He’s been giving Johnny an awful lot of weird looks recently too. Johnny’s caught him staring at him four times since yesterday and every mention of Aunt May, work, or Spider-Man sets Peter’s face into a series of frowns.

 

He feels a yawn overtake him once he’s eaten half the can of Pringles and downed a beer. It’s only then that he remembers it’s ass o’clock in the morning and he’s expected to function today. He lumbers to his bedroom, pulling his pants off in the process. It’s a near miracle the skin-tight jeans even come off; he can barely squeeze his ass into them. He dons a baggy sweatshirt he’s pretty sure is Peter’s and a pair of orange basketball shorts. Fuck showering.

 

He sits on the end of his bed. And thinks some more.

 

If he’s honest, he hasn’t really thought about Peter all day. Okay, that’s a lie; he’s never _not_ thinking about Peter. Peter is basically the sun his galaxy is orbiting. Hell, the kid is his fucking universe. It’d be impossible not to have the idiot cross his mind a few times a day. He probably thinks about him a lot _more_ than a few times but whatever. Point is, it’s a normal thing to think about Peter. He just hasn’t thought about what Peter’s going to do _now_.

 

It would be one thing if Peter seemed uneasy at the idea of Johnny and, well, _that_ , but he’s been seemingly unaffected by the occurrence. He still eats meals with Johnny, still goes out on patrol every night, and still irritates the ever-loving fuck out of Johnny.

 

But something’s... off.

 

Johnny scrubs a hand down his face in frustration. Maybe they won’t ever have to talk about it. Maybe after Peter gets un-busy with work and whatever else it is he’s doing, they can go back to being normal again. Or back to _feeling_ normal, because nothing has changed about their relationship. Johnny doesn’t know anymore.

 

Johnny’s hobbling back to the kitchen when he first hears it.

 

It’s soft, barely audible. It’s stuck somewhere between a mewl and a whine, and he half thinks he’s imagined it. It isn’t until it comes again that his breath stops. His head whip to the source: Peter’s bedroom.

 

He’s opening the door and peeking inside before he can stop himself and maybe use the organ taking up real estate in his head. Because any person with two brain cells to rub together would recognize a sex sound. Which this very well might be.

 

Oh god.

 

Johnny freezes. He’s stuck in the doorway of Peter’s room, crouching low. He’s about to fuck up, he can feel it. He’s going to fuck up in a big way and never be able to look at Peter again but he can’t move _why can’t he move?!_

 

The room is dark when he opens his eyes; darker than the kitchen and hallway, somehow. He stares into the black abyss as if it will give him answers. Or some common sense.

 

It doesn’t.

 

Slowly, Johnny creeps into the room. All is quiet in the Parker-Storm residence, but one naughty boy is a bit too curious.

 

Johnny gropes through the darkness, clumsily tripping on clothing and shoes scattered across the floor. He chokes on his lungs when another strange sound arises from the bed covers. It doesn’t quite sound like Peter. Maybe he’s having a nightmare? He makes it to the end of the bed and not-so-gracefully catches himself from falling over as his sock gets caught on something. He looks down. Velcro. _Leave it to fucking Peter to own Velcro in 2019_.

 

His heartbeat is loud in his ears. He can hear his blood pumping in his veins. He’s out of breath. It’s... kind of exhilarating.

 

He feels along the edge of the bed. Peter’s bedding is soft against his fingertips. Johnny used to come in here to sleep when Peter would leave town. That’s never something he’ll ever admit to anyone out loud, but. He misses it. Pete’s never caught him, but Johnny wonders what he’d do if he did. Would he be mad? He tries to imagine Peter yelling at him for sleeping in his bed and accidentally giggles. He slaps a hand over his mouth. Shit.

 

He peers into the darkness intently, but Parker is as unmoving as a corpse. Why did he come in here again? To feel Peter’s sheets like a fucking creep? He wants to kick himself. And Peter. Yeah, fuck Peter. He has half a mind to wake the boy up and yell at him for making him confused and angry and emotional but decides against that humiliation. Not tonight. Maybe next Sunday when they have to sit through another unbearable dinner with Aunt May.

 

He deflates. God, everything sucks right now. He wants another beer.

 

He’s just turning around to return to the kitchen and scrounge up more junk to shovel in his mouth hole when Peter makes a very different noise from the bed. He turns as still as a statue.

 

He’s still standing stationary on top of the Velcro piece when a gentle “Johnny?” slips out of the bed sheets and scares him shitless. He moves with lightning speed into what he imagines is the wall and impales himself with the bedside lamp.

 

He holds his breath. “Y-yes?” His chest feels like it’s going to explode with how fast his heart is beating. He fumbles with the lamp before switching it on, a warm and very _bright_ light bathing the room in color. His eyes land on Peter’s lumpy form on the opposite side of the bed. His hair is a mess, his cheeks a rosy pink, and there’s drool dribbling from his mouth. His face scrunches in seven different ways at the sudden brightness.

 

“Shut it off,” he groans, draping an arm over his eyes as a shield. His voice is gruff with sleep and irritation. Johnny hastily complies.

 

“Um,” Johnny begins articulately. “Is something wrong? I heard you, uh, crying. Or something.” He scoots himself onto the bed next to his roommate for lack of anything better to do. He can feel the heat radiating off of Peter. He ignores the prickly feeling it shoots throughout his body.

 

“It hurts,” Peter says simply. Johnny doesn’t know what he means.

 

“You’ll have to elaborate, I’m afraid.”

 

Peter lets out a frustrated grunt. “My stomach, dumbass. My whole body. Everything.”

 

“You’re awfully feisty for three a.m.”

 

“You would be too.”

 

“Okay. Did something happen on patrol?”

 

Peter is quiet a moment. Then; “Who’d you hook up with?”

 

The sentence falls awkwardly between them on the bed. Johnny feels it poking at him in the side as though a physical thing. He sits with an open mouth.

 

“Forget that,” Peter decides two seconds later, and Johnny doesn’t know how he hasn’t pulled a muscle yet with how hard he’s concentrating.

 

“Um,” he tries.

 

“I broke four ribs on patrol,” Peter moves on. “I also have indigestion. Today is a good day.”

 

Johnny doesn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry’ feels half-assed.

 

“Whose fault do you think that is?” Peter asks, eerily clinical. Johnny stays silent. “Is this supposed to happen? I got thrown into a _moving train_. And I-I was okay.” He takes a shaky breath. “That’s not normal, right? I shouldn’t be alive right now.”

 

“You’re a superhero; you signed up for this,” Johnny replies. He feels Peter close off in the darkness.

 

“I shouldn’t be alive,” Peter repeats, void of feeling.

 

“And I’m not supposed to be able to light myself on fucking fire, but here I am.”

 

In the grainy light, Johnny sees Peter snap.  _"For fuck’s sake!_ ” He's moving too quickly. Johnny’s brain doesn’t have the time to process the frustrated shout ringing in his ears before he's pushed back onto the bed with a hand clasped against his mouth. The back of his head hits the headboard. “Listen,” Peter breathes heavily, forcing Johnny down with his own weight, “I’ve had enough of this.”

 

Johnny swallows. “Enough of what?” he asks through the hand. Somehow, Peter understands the muffled words. He retracts his arm swiftly.

 

“Of _you_.”

 

It’s blunt. Johnny gapes at Peter’s shadowy form hovering over him.

 

There’s a bit of silence in which neither of them moves. The darkness around them turns cold. Cold enough that Johnny wouldn't be surprised to see his breath hanging in the air if he dared exhale. His skin breaks out in goosebumps.

 

The blackness feels as though it's swallowing them both in its never-ending emptiness. It’s near insufferable, despite the temperature of the room and the proximity of the two boys. The piece of Velcro is left forgotten on the bottom of Johnny’s sock. He feels a wave of sadness wash over his body all of a sudden. He lays still. He’s not sure if he’s scared of breaking the silence or scared of Peter breaking it for him. He gulps.

 

He’s just about ready to face the consequences and break the awful silence when fingers brush against his cheek. He feels something wet on his forehead, and before he realizes it, Peter is crying.

 

Shit, _Peter is crying._

 

He reaches out quickly. He isn’t sure what exactly is happening or why Peter is crying right now, but he supposes it’s because of him. The other boy doesn’t move as he sits up and pulls Peter into an awkward hug. It's that mute kind of crying that leaves his face puffy and red. Johnny could almost be fooled by the silent tears if it weren’t for his shaking shoulders. He wraps his arms around him tightly.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he attempts. He isn’t exactly the best at comforting people. Especially when _he’s_ the reason the person is even crying. He lets his hands flatten against Pete’s back, massaging the skin there gently. He vaguely realizes Peter is shirtless. Peter is warm. _Really_ warm.

 

Peter sobs into his shoulder. “I hate you,” he blubbers, but his hands clutching Johnny’s—Peter’s—sweatshirt prove otherwise.

 

Johnny only hums as his hands dance up and down the line of Pete’s spine, each time emitting sniffles from the latter. He rests his cheek on top of Peter’s head, listening to the unsteady breaths echoing around the room. His hair is soft against his face. It smells like shampoo. He must've showered.

 

It’s somewhere among the hair-tousling and soft touches and sniffling that Peter ends up on top of Johnny, curled up on his lap like a wounded animal. Peter either doesn't notice or doesn’t seem to mind; he presses himself against Johnny and lets his tears wet his sweatshirt.

 

“Angel,” Johnny whispers almost idly, sweeping the hair off of Peter’s forehead. He doesn't have time to be embarrassed about the slip-up because its then that his fingers brush the skin there. He has to stop from jumping at the contact. His forehead is burning up. Had he not noticed the layer of sweat covering his skin? He feels his own forehead, then feels Peter’s again. It’s definitely a fever.

 

“You’re burning up,” he says abruptly. _Wow, way to kill the mood, dumbass_.

 

Peter whines a little (god, he is so cute) and stops his sniveling to grasp Johnny’s arm and pull him back to cuddling him. “I’m fine,” he voices. Johnny kind of wants to cry.

 

“You’re running a fever. Stay here, I’ll be right back,” he says. He untangles himself from Pete’s limbs and trips over an ungodly amount of clothing on his way to the en suite. He flicks on the bathroom light and it pours into the dark room. Peter blinks at it as Johnny reappears with a wet washcloth and some Tylenol. “You need to take this.” He hands Peter the medicine and a half-empty water bottle he picks up off the floor somewhere. While Peter leans against the headboard and obediently takes the medicine, Johnny places the cold washcloth onto his forehead gently.

 

“How do you feel?” he asks quietly after Peter has finished drinking.

 

“Like shit,” the other croaks. Johnny laughs a little. Petey sides up to him, resting his head on his shoulder to balance the washcloth on his forehead. “Why does my body hurt so much, anyway? I've had broken ribs so many times, but it's never felt like this. I'm so hot. Are you hot? It's hot in here.” He pouts.

 

Johnny swallows and opens his mouth to reply, but closes it again. “Probably because you’re sick?” he decides on.

 

“It’s _so hot_ ,” Peter whines, rubbing his stomach and chest uncomfortably. Johnny glances down the boy’s body and gulps.

 

“I know,” he says thickly. He licks his lips and focuses on staring down a pair of ripped jeans lying in the corner. “Do you need anything else?”

 

Peter thinks a few moments before stating he wants Johnny’s ice cream he tried hiding in the back of the freezer. He grins lazily as Johnny scoffs. “It would be marvelous,” he chimes in. Johnny looks at the sweaty boy incredulously. He doesn’t just _give_ his ice cream away.

 

He lets Peter have it.

 

They sit in silence as Peter eats the frozen treat. Johnny plays with his hair, and Peter’s eyes get heavier the longer the fingers comb through his locks. He says he feels sleepy, suddenly. He struggles to stay awake as Johnny checks his forehead again to see if the medicine is working. Peter grunts, calling him an overprotective mother.

 

“Just be glad I was worried enough to check on you,” he chides, indignant.

 

“I could have _died_ ,” Peter says through a particularly large spoonful of the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream he sluggishly sucks on. Johnny stops a smile from forming on his lips.

 

“Would I ever allow my favorite person to die?”

 

Peter stares at him blankly. “Nice try.”

 

“It’s true!” His indignation masks his facial expression.

 

Peter narrows his eyes. “You swindled me out of thirty bucks last week.”

 

Johnny feigns hurt, placing his hand over his heart. “I would _never_.”

 

“You still owe me my childhood. I want my money back. I didn’t sign up for this.”

 

Johnny waves him off. Peter huffs a little and lies back on the bed, closing his eyes. The spoon is still grasped in his hand, but Johnny doesn’t bother taking it. Instead, he watches the smaller boy’s eyelashes twitch against his rosy cheeks as sleep relaxes his body. Something in Johnny's chest moves at the sight. He brings his fingers to the warm skin one last time as he breathes a goodnight into deaf ears.

 

“Nighty night, my Petey.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also if you aren't sure who Wyatt is, he's a close friend of Johnny's. they lived together for a bit
> 
> https://66.media.tumblr.com/7ca1cea8c4ad8b97f32e90b3260c9cb7/tumblr_pcy6x1StNL1rxt7dwo2_500.jpg


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruhhhh im so sorry this took so long idk what happened but im gifting yall with smut next chapter so dont be too mad at me for this half-assed chappy pls??

>   _The worst feeling is falling for someone and knowing that they won’t be there to catch you._

—Rashida Rowe

* * *

 

It’s just that lovely Parker luck, Johnny thinks, that Doom would attack New York the _one day_ this millennium Spider-Man’s home sick. The poor guy barely has enough time to brush his teeth, never mind sleep. There’s always an annoyingly persistent supervillain raging this rotten city when the both of them least want or need it. And of course, this is _Spider-Man_ he’s talking about, and Spidey isn’t gonna let the sniffles take him out.

 

“Why does this shit always happen when I’m two coughs from death?” Peter grumbles with a particularly hard (well-deserved, but hard) kick to a doombot. The thing goes flying, landing with a clunk against a nearby building from the sheer force of the blow. Johnny watches him out of the corner of his eye. If he’s cursing, that means bad things for everyone involved. Especially Johnny.

 

Damn it.

 

“Hey, Spidey, you alright?” he calls carefully, sending three bots to their watery graves in the Hudson. They’re back to back in a mass bloodbath of android corpses, fighting this wave of bots alone, it appears. Where his family is, Johnny doesn’t know. Doom’s grand entrance has been festering for around twenty minutes with still no sign of them.

 

Peter flips out of the way of an oncoming laser beam with the grace of a circus clown and wobbles along the edge of Johnny’s peripheral. “I want to die,” he announces. A bot comes worryingly close to decapitating him.

 

“Should you really be fighting right now?” Johnny frowns at him. He can’t tell with the mask, but perhaps Spider-Man is leering at him.

 

“Ah, yes. Much better things to do than save the city. Again. For the thousandth time. My lasagna’s in the oven, gracious me, how could I forget, must get home.”

 

Johnny rolls his eyes but leaves it at that. Peter would fight blind, with one leg and the stomach flu. He’d fight right up until he collapses, which is more concerning than Peter gives one damn about.

 

Peter punches another bot so hard its face caves in. He webs four more together before a massive sneeze puts him out. He slumps against a lamp post. “I don’t feel so good...” he mumbles, clutching his head. Johnny’s barely able to hear him over the screech and clash of metal and the thundering of explosions signaling someone with a very big gun has just joined the fray.

 

“Hold on a sec, Pete,” Johnny whispers back. He jumps out of the line of fire of an oncoming tangle of bots. From above, Iron Man descends upon the scene like a goateed guardian angel. Johnny breathes a sigh of relief.

 

“What’s going on?” comes his robotic voice. His face panel folds back to reveal sunglasses and a disapproving glower aimed at everything in general. Probably the public property currently being demolished, but who knows. He’s never really liked Johnny, and Doom’s high price tag likely doesn’t help him in that department.

 

“Another day in New York, boss,” Johnny replies. 

 

Tony’s eye catches sight of Peter. He shoots a few daring bots that approach him with a hand blaster. “What’s up with him?”

 

“Doom invasions and the common cold aren’t a good mix, apparently.”

 

Peter lifts his head enough for his glare to be palpable through his mask. Tony only chuckles slightly. “You kids get out of here. I think I got this. Sue and Reed are confronting Doom right now.”

 

Ah, so that’s where they are. “I’m fine, actually. It’s just Spidey... he really shouldn’t be fighting right now.” That last bit is mumbled so Pete can’t hear him over the various bots dying three feet away.

 

“I take it he wouldn’t go on his own.”

 

“Not a chance. Have you met the guy?”

 

“Should we knock him out?”

 

They must’ve been speaking a bit too loudly because Pete cuts off Johnny’s response by hurling a bot right at them.

 

“Wh—hey!” Johnny screams, darting out of the way. The bot cracks the concrete beneath Johnny’s feet. He glares at Peter. “Dude, what the—you could’ve _killed_ me.”

 

“But I didn’t.”

 

Iron Man’s faceplate snaps back into place and he fires up his blasters and jets, but he pauses. “You did well. Take a rest. We got this.” And then he’s off, following the horde South down the wide street. Johnny watches after him briefly before turning back to Peter with a grim set to his jaw.

 

“You shouldn’t be fighting right now. I’m taking you home,” he announces.

 

“That’s sweet, but I’m fine,” Peter snipes, even as he struggles to his feet and nearly falls over. Johnny flies over to him and anchors onto his arm with a frown. “Johnny what—” He scoops Peter up in his arms before the other can struggle away, darting into the sky and from a daring doombot. Peter scrabbles for a hold on Johnny with a gasp. “You’re gonna _kill_ me,” he reproaches crossly. “Don’t you dare drop me, or I’m setting all your stuff on fire.”

 

“Why, we haven’t even dated, and you’re already acting like we’re breaking up. I’m shocked and disappointed, Spider-Man.”

 

Peter huffs but relaxes gradually as Johnny secures his hold around his waist and flies them home. “Who said we aren’t dating, Torch? With the way you’re carrying me, I’m inclined to think you’re taking me to your chambers to woo me.”

 

“Ha. Woo? More like _do_ , amirite?”

 

Peter doesn’t even have the decency to laugh at that. “You’re terrible.”

 

“Hey, that’s my line.”

 

A soft smile crinkles Peter’s mask, and Johnny has the irresistible urge to kiss him. Ugh.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s eyebags have eyebags. Johnny stares at them as his roommate makes himself a bowl of cereal, bumbling around in the dark like Ben—or Sue, after a few glasses of wine. He doesn’t know Johnny’s perched on the couch watching him. Well, until Johnny accidentally sneezes and Peter sticks to the kitchen ceiling.

 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me?” Peter sighs, exasperated. He squints into the dark room. The light above the sink casts a glow around his near-naked body. He has a halo. “What are you even doing over there? Weirdo creep face.”

 

Johnny hops off the couch and makes his way into the kitchen. He takes up residence atop the counter and eyes Peter. He’s wearing Deadpool undies (unsurprising. They’ve been hanging out a bit lately), his web shooters, and a frown. He’s fresh out of the shower. No broken ribs this time, although he does look like he bit into a lemon. Johnny smiles before he can stop himself.

 

With effort, Peter relaxes enough to unstick himself. “Say something,” he demands sourly. God, he’s cute when he’s pissed off. Johnny doesn’t even know _why_ he’s pissed off, doesn’t care. In the back of his head, warnings buzz annoyingly. Like a bee. Or a... spider. Johnny’s smile grows dopey.

 

“Are you going to say anything or are you just gonna sit there and—” Peter snaps his mouth shut with a clank as Johnny’s palm presses to his cheek. He blinks wide, guarded eyes at Johnny in the grainy half-light.  “What are you doing, Johnny.” It isn’t a question.

 

“You’re cute,” Johnny says. It isn’t a question, either.

 

Peter’s brows reach for his hairline. His pretty little lips part in uncertainty. Johnny lets himself bask in his expression, the delicious way his eyes seem to see right through Johnny, through his false bravado, right to the center of his being—for but a moment. Then he pulls his hand back.

 

“Why are you making cereal at this hour?” Johnny nods to the box of Cap’n Crunch sitting on the stove like an unholy relic.

 

Peter has to collect himself. He’s drifted toward Johnny somehow, left standing nearly between his legs like a lost sheep. He stumbles away and over to his cereal with a sour expression.

 

“Why are you watching me make cereal at this hour?” he bites back.

 

“Because I love you?”

 

Peter hurls a disgusted look over his shoulder, hugging his cereal to his chest. “What the fuck, Storm.” Again, not a question.

 

“What, I can’t say I love you to my best pal?” This, unfortunately, _is_ a question and comes out a tad too raw and vulnerable for Johnny’s liking. It tastes funny on his tongue. He wishes he could take it back.

 

Peter says nothing. Johnny thinks he might retreat to his bedroom to eat his cereal in peace, but he stays, unmoving. Johnny scrutinizes his back with a concentration he wouldn’t allow himself if Pete could see him. His shoulders are stiff, hunched. The hard planes of his back are pulled tight. Too tight. He’s all wound up, standing in their kitchen with his cereal turning soggy.

 

Johnny slips from the counter and slowly approaches. His hand connects with Peter’s shoulder.

 

Peter doesn’t flinch. He was expecting it.

 

“What’s wrong, Pete?” Johnny whispers. Peter’s fingers twitch around his bowl. He stares into it, not letting the other see his face.

 

“...Nothing.”

 

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

 

Peter just sighs, turning his face towards Johnny. He offers a small, apologetic smile. “I’m just tired. I’m gonna head to sleep. Night, Johnny.” He goes for a hug at the same time Johnny pulls back, and a bit of milk and cereal clumps slop over the edge of the bowl and hit the linoleum with an obscene _splat_. Startled, Pete backs off, only spilling more.

 

“You’re a mess, Parker,” Johnny teases.

 

He expects Peter to laugh at the absurdity, maybe crack a smile. To Johnny’s horror, Peter’s mouth quivers like he’s—like he’s going to _cry_.

 

Peter doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then—

 

“Thanks, Johnny.”

 

Johnny, bewildered, can only stare at his best friend. In the semi-darkness, Pete’s eyes are watery, but his lips are quirked in a soft smile. The breath is sucked from Johnny’s lungs. He wants to ask what’s the matter, what happened, why this feels like a goodbye. But for some strange, unfathomable reason, he can’t seem to open his mouth. Has his tongue always felt this heavy? Has there always been a gaping hole in his chest? Christ. He feels more worried than he would if Peter had slapped him across the face.

 

Even though he doesn’t know what Peter’s thanking him for, he says, “Anything for my best pal,” anyway, smiling back at the goofy, wet, broken man sloshing cereal on the fool at four in the morning.

 

And then something strange happens. Peter reaches up with one hand, balancing his cereal bowl in the other, and—

 

Flicks Johnny in the forehead.

 

“Eugh, what the fuck,” Johnny scowls, flicking him back. Unfortunately, Petey wasn’t expecting that, and his midnight snack goes flying.

 

They look on in mutual silence at the puddles of milk and soggy Cap ‘N’ Crunch strewn about the kitchen. Peter’s shoulders sag in a way that generally means he’s going to be a depressing shit to deal with. But Peter doesn’t say anything. In fact, he just sets his now nearly empty bowl of milk aside and begins mopping up the mess with a dish towel. While he crawls about on all fours, Johnny hops back onto the counter.

 

“You know, this is kinda nice,” he speaks up after the quiet has stretched for several minutes. Peter glares up from where he’s crouched. “Dude, you look like the chick from The Ring. Yoooo I know what we’re going as for Halloween!”

 

“What, will you be the TV? You have the shape for it...” The little shit smirks at the tiny bit of belly poking out of Johnny’s t-shirt. He shields himself, aghast.

 

“You calling me fat?! I can’t believe—” But then he’s struck with another thought. If he’s the chick and Pete’s the TV, that would—

 

“What are you grinning about?” Peter throws the dirty towel into the sink (where it’s going to sit out the rest of the night and stink up the whole place. Gross) and saunters over to Johnny with his hands on his hips.

 

“Like, she crawls out of the TV, right? That means I’d have to be _inside_ of you.”

 

“Oh, grow up. You’re so immature.”

 

“I’m not sure how I like this, Petey. Maybe you should be the TV. I’d like that much better.” He manages a wink and barely escapes thanks to one of Pete’s sneezing fits. He’s been having them all week and recently given them to Johnny as well. As if on cue, Johnny feels a sneeze overcome him as well.

 

Peter pinches Johnny’s cheek. “No one’s going inside of anyone, okay?”

 

“Oh, so you’re a frotting man, I see.”

 

“Shut _up!”_

 

* * *

 

Mary Jane Watson. The bane of Johnny’s existence. Peter’s too, if you look at it the right way. A wonderful actress but a not-so-wonderful girlfriend. Or perhaps that’s _why_ she isn’t a great girlfriend. He’s heard somewhere that actors are just really good liars. Or... something like that. Whatever.

 

“Sorry to call you so suddenly,” Mary Jane—MJ, as Peter calls her—says.

 

Johnny sips his lemonade. “No biggie,” he replies, even if it is, admittedly, a biggie. The fact that MJ requested to get up close and personal with celebrity superhero Johnny Storm for a Sunday brunch alludes something serious. It’s enough to make Johnny’s hackles rise. “Something up?” he tries to ask casually.

 

MJ sighs into her own lemonade. As she sets it down on the smooth tabletop, Johnny notices a ring on her finger. “This is about Peter if you hadn’t guessed by now.”

 

“I figured,” Johnny chuckles awkwardly. He’s lost as to where this is going, but there are only a small number of things Mary Jane Watson would seek out Johnny Storm for. “What’d he do now?”

 

She smiles fondly, sweeping her long, fiery hair over one shoulder. Peter always loved her hair. He said once that it’s one of his favorite things to touch. Johnny looks at it now and can see why. It seems to move with her like a living, breathing thing. It dances when she laughs, tumbles down her back like a waterfall when she tosses her head back and squeezes her eyes closed. It’s beautiful. _She’s beautiful._

 

“Pete didn’t do anything, but that’s kind of the point.” She puffs out a long breath. Then she levels Johnny with a stare so intense he’s tempted to scoot his chair several feet back. “Tell me honestly... has he been doing _it_ again?”

 

“Uh... ‘it’?”

 

She looks at him, and Johnny feels his stomach start to sink.

 

“I told him about a month ago that I’d gotten engaged. He congratulated me—of course he would, it’s _Peter_. He’s such a nice guy. But that’s his problem. I’m sure you noticed around then that he began to... change.”

 

Something like dread sinks to the pit of Johnny’s stomach. “Change how?”

 

“Well, _you know_. He gets... very overwhelming, for one thing. Almost like a puppy. He isolates himself a lot too. Stays out patrolling for hours on little food and not much sleep. He clams up and it’s—it’s bad. I’m worried about him. I hadn’t thought it was to this point, but his aunt called me the other day and told me he’s been looking real bad. I care about him, you know? Even if we aren’t together anymore.” Her expression tells Johnny she’s sincere— _why would she have any reason not to be? Get ahold of yourself, idiot._

Johnny’s never liked her. MJ is a wonderful person—really, he means it. But she’s _Peter’s_ wonderful person. She’s the closest thing to a soulmate Peter’s ever going to have. And that—well, it fucking sucks. If he liked her, he’d be signing his best friend away.

 

But Johnny recognizes that she means well. She only has Peter’s best interest in mind. She reached out to an awkward acquaintance because she’s worried about her ex. There aren’t many people on this earth good enough to do that. She’s a good person.

 

“I understand. I’m here for him,” Johnny says even as his heart oozes between his ribs and skin and cells and lands somewhere by his feet, forgotten. Later, when he’s getting up, it makes a _squish_ under the sole of his shoe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one:  
> me: haha look! unnecessary angst to end the chapter with!


End file.
